Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

Click here to continue reading...

Cecily is one of the contributing editors for Alcohol and Drug Addiction. She writes daily at her personal blog, Uppercase Woman, where she covers not only her 12 years of sobriety, but life with Tori, writing, and all things feminist.

James Frey Made Me Write This Post

On Saturday night, Sarah, Pete, Charlie and I went to Elise and her husband's for dinner. We had an amazing time--laughing, talking, just enjoying each other. After dessert, we ended up just sitting around the table talking for hours. Something I haven't done since the days I was drinking and drugging...

Maybe that's why I found myself talking about my using days. Elise asked a question, and Sarah and I found ourselves talking about those last few months out there in the drinking world. I've been thinking a lot about my own using insanity lately, so it felt good to just talk about it, to bring it back out into the light and look again with the eyes of someone who's been sober over ten years.

What strikes me the most is how fucking insane it was. I was crazy! When I look at it now, the things I did back then--almost all of them--seem like something only a suicidal lunatic would do. But back then, they seemed completely fucking rational. Really.

Lots of people accuse us infertiles of being obsessed with wanting a child; but honestly, they have no idea what the fuck obsession is.

Obsession is using water from a toilet to mix up the drugs you are going to put into your veins because you cannot go one. more. minute. without it. Yes, TOILET WATER. In my VEINS.

Click here to continue reading...

Cecily is one of the contributing editors for Alcohol and Drug Addiction. She writes daily at her personal blog, Uppercase Woman, where she covers not only her 12 years of sobriety, but life with Tori, writing, and all things feminist.

Pretend This Post is Accompanied By Festive Confetti and Balloons

In regards to my last post, many of you asked, “What do you think started you down the path of drugs and alcohol?” I think many of you were actually asking, “Holy fucking shit, how do I stop my kids from being like you?”

Truth is, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I think. I believe, firmly, that Alcoholism/Addiction is a disease—an often fatal, and sadly, incurable disease. Because I have that disease—which I believe I was born with—my path was inevitable.

In other words, NOTHING could have stopped me.

Unlike most of you, alcohol and drugs fit my brain the way a key fits in a lock.

Let’s take a look at a not-so-random sample of alcoholics: Sarah, Charlie, and me.

Click here to continue reading...

Cecily is the contributing editor for Alcohol and Drug Addiction. She writes daily at her personal blog, Uppercase Woman, where she covers not only her 12 years of sobriety, but life with Tori, writing, and all things feminist.

Take-the-Baby-to-Prison Day, or Why Aren't There Any Rehab Prisons?

So, on Saturday I was changing Tori's diaper in the bathroom of the visitors waiting room at prison and I got to thinking about this post I've been meaning to write.

Wait. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Recently, we (we being Charlie, Sarah, and I) found out that an old friend of ours had gone down a rocky path. Once sober and happy, he'd hit a bunch of speed bumps--the brutal murder of a friend and business partner, the loss of a fianceé, the theft of his belongings--and it all added up to his choosing to return to using drugs and drinking rather than staying sober. In short order, this led to him being where he is now: behind bars, serving a two-year sentence. We'd lost touch with him over the years and had no idea he was in jail, but after exchanging a few letters decided to go visit him.

Visiting someone is prison is a nightmare in Philadelphia (perhaps it's more fun where you are). We arrived early, took a number, sat for a half-hour, then filled out a form, found out to our dismay that we couldn't take Tori to see our friend because we didn't bring her birth certificate with us (for fuck's sake), and then we waited. And waited. The room we waited in was about 100 degrees, and it took forever for them to allow us our visits (we each got a half-hour with our friend, and we had to wait 45 minutes between our half hours for some unknown reason). Once I was finally permitted to go back to see him, I was required to take off my shoes and shake out my socks, lift my shirt and shake out my bra, lift my hair and let the guard check behind my ears, let her put her hands in all my pockets, look "down" my pants, and also open my mouth and let her look under my tongue.

Click here to continue reading...

Cecily is the contributing editor for Alcohol and Drug Addiction. She writes daily at her personal blog, Uppercase Woman, where she covers not only her 12 years of sobriety, but life with Tori, writing, and all things feminist.

If this is your first time on this site, please see our comment policy.

Cecily's Story

Cecily is the contributing editor for Alcohol and Drug Addiction. She writes daily at her personal blog, Uppercase Woman, where she covers not only her 12 years of sobriety, but life with Tori, writing, and all things feminist.

On December 21st, 1995 I had yet to put up a Christmas tree. In fact, I had no idea Christmas was in just four days. I also had no heat; our rental house (recently abandoned by my roommate when she went off to rehab) used oil heat and we didn't have enough money to fill the tank. Why? Because all of our money was going into my veins, in the form of cocaine.

That day, while shooting up, a huge rock of coke fell into the spoon. I was on my second eight ball (an eight of an ounce, or 3.5 grams) of coke already that day; my habit had skyrocketed in recent weeks. I remember looking at that huge rock of coke slowly dissolving in the water and thinking, oh no--that's too much.

Then I shot it up anyway.

I proceeded to have a grand mal seizure for nearly twenty minutes. For ten minutes after that, I barely breathed. My boyfriend stood out on the street waiting for the ambulance. I remember only a little of the ride; a Christmas ornament, bouncing lightly, hanging over the doors. In the hospital, I have what is often called a moment of clarity: I could not imagine my life without drugs and alcohol, but I couldn't imagine living the way I'd been living.

It was a rough road. My boyfriend, an alcoholic, decided to quit as well. We went to a recovery meeting, and it wasn't long before I realized that it wasn't just drugs that were my problem; the daily drinking I'd done for 15 years prior to starting to use drugs wasn't exactly normal either.

But we did it. My boyfriend (now my husband) and I have now been sober and clean for over 12 years. We did it by staying open, listening to people who'd gone before us, and making lots and lots of meetings. I'm hoping this site will help others find the peace and serenity I now have. It is possible to get sober. It really is.